At the end of eight minutes, Harry decided to wait no longer. He saw an elevator ready for its upward trip. Harry felt sure that Powell would linger a few minutes if he came into the lobby. So he entered the elevator and rode to the fifth floor. He hurried down the corridor toward 516. If Powell were gone, it would mean a quick trip back to the lobby. Failing to find the man there, Harry could assume that he had slipped away. Then it would be a race toward Herkimer, with a head start for Powell.
The door of 516 was closed. Harry tapped lightly. No response. Harry spoke softly, leaning close to the door. Still, no reply.
Harry sensed a trap, and his hand tightened on the handle of the automatic which he carried in his pocket. He tried the door. It was unlocked. Harry entered.
The room was dark. Harry turned on the light; the room was empty. He noticed the key lying on the bureau. Strange that Powell had not taken it with him. Harry looked for baggage, but saw none. Then he spied what appeared to be a shoe, protruding from the foot of the bed. He moved forward to investigate.
There, in the space between the front of the bed and the window, Harry saw the body of Wallace Powell. The man was dead!
He had been barbarously murdered. The collar had been pulled from his throat as strong hands had choked him. His head had been driven forcibly against the radiator in the corner.
Powell's features were a ghastly sight.
Harry had seen death often — but seldom death so frightful as this.
The sight dazed Harry. It was the last thing he had anticipated. He had felt sure that Powell would be safe here, in the hotel. But the man was dead, and his precious bag was missing.
Stooping forward, mind clearing, Harry searched the dead man's pockets. Not an article remained in them. The murderer had rifled them. All that Harry had gained was the precious map. WHO